


Be Someone Else

by ClementineStarling



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after that kiss...</p><p>(Mild spoilers for 1x04, Demimonde)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this scene.](http://cyberqueer.tumblr.com/post/87623960279/you-want-to-be-someone-else-come-with-me)
> 
> This was meant to be significantly (!) less than 1000 words. Goddamn you, porn bunnies!  
> But at least it took me only about 25 hours to finish it. (Yeah, personal record)  
> This might have resulted in sloppiness and mistakes though (grammar, spelling, expression, you name it), so I'm always happy about feedback - and your thoughts in general of course, beloved readers. :)

The anger still burns in his knuckles. Truth be told, it never quite leaves. It keeps seething, somewhere in the dark of his mind. And yet he plays his parts to perfection, that much is also true. Though when it comes to naming that role, he would prefer cold-blooded gunman over rude mechanical rugged westerner. Still, in the end it does not matter which identity he assumes or how he hides what he is - as long as he does. So he tries to shake the urge to clench his hands into fists and attempts to regain a sense of serenity instead. And he thinks he does fine, considering the circumstances. The way his fingers curl around the glass is utterly civilised as is the raise of his eyebrow at the mention of Vanessa Ives. Dorian Gray is testing him, he can smell it through all the layers of perfume and absinthe and opium smoke, he isn’t one to be easily fooled, but he suspects neither is Dorian. They both know why they are here, they’re only waiting for the other to make the first move.

Ethan is inclined to exercise patience. Just lean back and let himself drown in the moment and the music, in wormwood and booze, float on a sea of emotions. Only it does not work. The damn Wagner is really racking his nerves. What comes bubbling up isn’t peaceful and nice but violent, a turmoil of wrath and madness and lust. The tug is keen like fishhooks in his belly, just like the itch in his fingers, and before he knows it, they close around Dorian’s throat.

Submit, the gesture screams. Submit, his eyes plead. The smaller man does not flinch, he just stares back at him, allows himself to be dragged into a kiss, feverish lips on impassive mouth. It’s not an offer, more of a gesture of dominance that Dorian simply accepts, tolerates – apparently with the same aloofness that he applies to everything else. Mildly interested, amused.

Ethan fingers flex, catch at the fabric of Dorian’s silk shirt and more or less rip it open, impatiently pull it down. He barely allows himself a glance at what he reveals - sapling’s torso, slender and smooth - too captivating are Gray’s eyes: he searches them for fear and for surrender and perhaps forgiveness, but what he finds is his own sadness mirrored back at him and his hands slacken, helplessly they fall to his side.

Dorian’s fingers rise though, busy themselves with the buttons of Ethan's clothes. One by one they open until Dorian shoves the shirt over his shoulders, gently in comparison to Chandler’s savageness, and bares him to his inquisitive gaze that now holds a spark of defiance and, at least so Ethan believes, a tinge of timidity.

Then Dorian kisses him, just like first kisses should be, slow, tentative, soft brush of lips, dry with a vague promise of tongue, a caress that feeds the tingle of arousal in the pit of his stomach. This time Ethan’s fingers curl only lightly against his skull as they pull Dorian closer and his mouth gives in to the tenderness of the kiss. For a moment he simply follows the pace Gray has set, but before long, he takes over control again, subtly though, nearly apologetically.

When they break apart he looks for consent not submission in Dorian’s expression and his heart leaps when he finds a faint smile of approval playing around the corners of his mouth. He honestly wants Dorian Gray, not just for distraction or release, but like a lover who longs for connection to a kindred spirit, that metaphysical moment when the walls of self-identity are torn down and you transcend your own being and become part of another. Be someone else.

Ethan Chandler is used to the escape he finds in the embrace of a lover, sweet oblivion of the flesh followed by exhausted, satisfied, dreamless sleep that for a few precious hours makes him forget the beast raging inside him. His calm has a steep price. But Dorian Gray is different, not just a tool. There is something in his bearing he recognises, this oddly careless curiosity, the hunt for the thrill, fascination, avid, ephemeral, gone… Somehow he is not so sure he is the only monster in this room. A queer notion, true, but his senses are rarely deceived.

Dorian’s hands jerk him out of his musings as they begin to roam his chest, tracing well-defined muscle like Braille, as if he could read something from it he does not yet know, as if Ethan wore every truth on his skin. It’s the appreciation of an explorer, a connaisseur, confronted with the new and the strange and the wonderful, and he wonders whether he will find himself pinned to a cork board before long, the latest price in a collection of butterflies.

Fingers graze his nipples which eagerly strain towards the touch, and the sensation drags on, downwards, like needle pricks, pooling into a sharpness in his guts, and he feels his self-restraint crumbling. They need to talk rules before this gets out of hand.

„How do you want me,“ he asks, unceremoniously cutting to the point.

Dorian’s fingers freeze in their tracks. „Oh Mr Chandler, you do disappoint me,“ he says, sparkle of mischief in his eyes and laughter curling his mouth, „have you not already made the most splendid of introductions?“ He leans closer, breath anise-sweet, and whispers, „I do not mind a little roughness. Au contraire.“ Nails scratch so heavily over the skin they draw blood and Ethan groans at the unexpected twinge of pain.

„Don’t tempt me,“ he growls, „You might get more than you’ve bargained for.“

„Try me,“ Dorian says, like it’s a children’s challenge he accepts, and in a flash Ethan is upon him, the wolf’s snarl dangerously close to the surface, and Dorian Gray finds himself pushed against the wall, caged by nearly fourteen stone of angry American. Ethan has grabbed a fistful of Dorian’s hair and yanks his head backwards, exposing his neck to gleaming sharp teeth and a bite that nearly breaks skin. Dorian only barely suppresses a whine of submission and manages a laugh instead.

„So you think this is funny,“ Ethan says, voice so low it resembles a hiss. He shifts his weight, so he stands even closer and Dorian can feel his erection through the fabric of their trousers.

„No, Sir.“ Dorian says.

He looks lovely with his lowered eyes and rosy cheeks, Ethan notes, and he also seem to know how to play. Experimentally he tightens his grip in the tousled hair and earns himself a shameless moan and a squirm, that somehow causes just the right amount of friction, and it takes him quite a bit of effort not to repeat Dorian’s lewd sound.

„Much better,“ he says instead and dips his head to catch that luscious mouth in another kiss. Dorian’s lips yield to the intrusion of his tongue, but assert just enough resistance to keep up the illusion of force. A masterpiece of pretence, Ethan thinks not without admiration as he licks the soft whimpers from Dorian’s mouth and bites at the soft flesh with a little more vigour than is exactly called for. It’s only when he tastes salt and copper that he lets go.

Breathing hard he looks at his handiwork: flushed, flustered, beautiful Dorian Gray, lips raw, neck bruised, eyes aglow with desire. No painter could have captured his essence better.

His fingers tremble with impatience as he fumbles with Dorian’s belt. When he has finally managed to unbuckle it, he does not even give the buttons a try. He just rips the trousers open - sending the buttons flying to the ground in the process - and shoves them over slim hips.

Dorian is the perfect depiction of youth, lean limbs, wiry muscle, flawless skin. Ethan runs his hands over the smooth chest, mimicking Dorian’s earlier exploration, then lower, until they find his cock.

„What shall I do with you now,“ he murmurs as Dorian gasps at the touch, then at the feel of fingers closing, squeezing, jerking, setting a rhythm that’s too fast for him to last long. But Ethan knows what he does, when he sees the first indications of orgasm, he stops and takes a step backwards, watching with amusement how Dorian’s knees buckle and he struggles for balance.

Languidly he opens his own belt and trousers, baring himself to Dorian’s hungry eyes. One, two, three slow strokes and he is fully erect, cock heavy and dark in his hand.

„Allow me,“ Dorian says and before Ethan can even reply, he has got to his knees and looks up at him from large, awestricken eyes, like escaped from a wet dream.

Ethan frowns for a moment. He is no stranger to this, hell, he’s seen it all, but this is a man of position, a lord’s son, if he is not mistaken, no showman or circus boy. Is it really a good idea to put his cock into his mouth? But then, screw it, it’s not been his idea, has it?  
So he nods and not a second later he is sucked into slick wetness.

Deeper and deeper he glides into the other man’s throat until he fears he might choke him, but to his surprise, it never happens. Instead it’s the most exciting thing he’s ever experienced and he can’t help but curse and growl and gasp for breath in equal measures.  
Dorian holds him steady, fingers digging into the muscles above his hipbones, and fucks him with his mouth until Ethan thinks he will go blind because his vision blurs and all sensations flow towards his groin, intoxicating, paralysing goodness. He is about to come, spill his seed into this glorious tight heat, when one of Dorian’s hands loosens its grip to take hold of his own cock, reminding him of their unspoken deal. It’s him who is to be in control…

It takes all willpower he can muster to disentangle himself from Dorian’s embrace.  
„Not like this,“ he pants, struggling for air, „I want to fuck you properly,“ and he pulls Dorian up to his feet - who is all smugness and complacency - and drags him into another passionate kiss before pushing him down on the chaise longue.

He looks dashing like that, draped over the lush green upholstery, sinful, gorgeous. Ethan thinks he could watch him for a half an eternity without getting bored: the heave and fall of his chest, the reddened lips, the proud jut of his cock. His body tells him otherwise though, there is no patience in the throb between his legs and the thunder of blood is deafening in his ears, not unlike a killing frenzy, and he is suddenly aware of the ragged edge of his fingernails digging into his palms.

Meanwhile Dorian has produced a small bottle from somewhere under the sofa, and he spreads himself wide, for his gaze and also for his oil-slick hand to prepare himself. A low, beastly sound rises from Ethan’s throat at the sight of the fingers, opening and thrusting and curling against that certain spot and the grimace of pleasure on Dorian’s face.  
„That’s enough,“ he says when he finds his voice again, yet it sounds alien and hoarse in his ears. Dorian freezes in his movements nevertheless, obedient, the eyes feverish, desperate with lust, and the thrill of anticipation ripples down Ethan’s spine.

He lowers himself on the sofa, kneeling between Dorian’s legs, wrapping them around his hips, so he lies open and vulnerable before him, finally his to consume. The head of his cock is pushing against the well-prepared passage, only teasing. Dorian’s hands clutch at his shoulders, claw at muscle and bone, _please_ , he whispers, _please_.

Ethan grasps Dorian’s wrists, and in one quick motion loosens their grip, bending the arms and pinning one to his side, the other to the back rest of the sofa, leaning on them with all his weight, when at last he slides into him. Dorian archs, gracefully, ink black pupils swallowing the colour from his eyes, his mouth open in a silent moan and Ethan feels himself melting, the pressure around him so exquisite it is nearly painful. He waits until Dorian’s muscle relax a little and then moves, carefully. It takes him a couple of thrusts before he finds his target but then the effect is mesmerising. Jolts of pleasure run through Dorian’s body like lightning and he jerks under his touch, as if in a trance, possessed by some strange demon.

So this is what we truly are then, Ethan thinks, men possessed, battling their demons, and he leans down again to kiss the agony from Dorian’s lips, swallow the gasps of despair, never breaking the rhythm though, pushing and grinding, like the sea whipping the shore, in steady, violent waves. _Yes yes yes_ , Dorian moans into his mouth, and _fuck yes_. And then his crisis is upon him, like epileptic shocks, his limbs shake and his eyes are wide and his seed spatters on his stomach like a shower of pearls and Ethan feels how he himself is strung to the breaking point, the tension unbearable, and then his hips falter, the moment of release like toppling over, falling, floating, followed by the tug in the lower belly, sharp like a wound and yet so delicious, again and again till it ebbs and fades, and finally, emptiness.

Ethan slumps against Dorian’s chest, trying to catch his breath, and Dorian strokes his sweaty hair in an oddly gentle way, like that first kiss, Ethan thinks, and all of a sudden he is bone-tired, sleep like lead in his limbs.

“So what about Ms Ives?” he yawns into Dorian’s cooling skin just before he drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> *  
> If you were wondering about Ethan Chandler's weigth, see [discussion in comments](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/11835418).  
> [VelveteenThestral](http://archiveofourown.org/users/VelveteenThestral/pseuds/VelveteenThestral) pointed out that my original 180 pounds (inspired by google results for Josh Hartnett) were not nearly enough, so I adopted the counterproposition of 14 stone which equals 196 pounds or 89 kilogrammes, with the presumption that - in the heat of the moment - Dorian Gray wouldn't be too precise, either. However, thanks so much for the help! :*


End file.
